Albert Joplin chuckled. ‘Couldn’t agree more. You’re a lad right after my own heart.’
‘Research isn’t the point,’ Mr Saunders said. ‘Whatever is in that grave is getting restless and I want it out of that cemetery tonight. If you could oblige me by supervising the excavation, Mr Lockwood, I’d be grateful to you. What do you say?’
Lockwood glanced at me; he glanced at George. We returned his gaze with shining eyes. ‘Mr Saunders,’ he said, ‘we’d be delighted.’
6
When Lockwood, George and I arrived at the West Gate of Kensal Green Cemetery at dusk that evening, we had our new silver-tipped Italian rapiers hanging at our belts, and our largest duffel bags in our hands. Behind us the sun was setting against a few puffy, pink-flecked clouds – it was the end of a perfect summer’s day. Despite the beauty of the scene, our mood was sombre, our tension high. This was not a job we were undertaking lightly.
The great cemeteries of London, of which Kensal Green was the oldest and the finest, were relics of an age when people had a gentler relationship with the deceased. Back in Victorian times, their pleasant trees and landscaped paths made them places of respite from the metropolitan whirl. Stonemasons vied with one another to produce attractive headstones; roses grew in bowers, wildlife flourished. On Sundays families came to wander there, and muse upon mortality.
Well, not any more, they didn’t. The Problem had changed all that. Today the cemeteries were overgrown, the bowers wild and laced with thorns. Few adults ventured there by daylight; at night they were places of terror, to be avoided at all costs. While it was true that the vast majority of the dead still slept quietly in their graves, even agents were reluctant to spend much time among them. It was like entering enemy territory. We were not welcome there.
The West Gate had once been wide enough for two carriages at a time to pass out onto the Harrow Road. Now it was rudely blocked by a rough-hewn fence, laced with strips of iron, and thickly pasted with faded posters and handbills. The most common poster showed a wide-eyed smiling woman in a chaste knee-length skirt and T-shirt, standing with hands outstretched in greeting. Beneath her, radiant letters read, THE OPEN ARMS FELLOWSHIP: WE WELCOME OUR FRIENDS FROM THE OTHER SIDE.
‘Personally,’ I said, ‘I like to welcome them with a magnesium flare.’ I had that knot in my stomach I always get before a case. The woman’s smile offended me.
‘These ghost cults contain some idiots,’ agreed George.
In the centre of the fence a narrow entrance door hung open, and beside this stood a shabby hut made of corrugated iron. It contained a deckchair, a collection of empty soft-drink cans, and a small boy reading a newspaper.
The boy wore an enormous flat cap, coloured with rather sporty yellow checks and almost entirely shading his face. Otherwise he was decked out in the usual drab-brown uniform of the night watch. His iron-tipped watch-stick was propped in a corner of the hut. He regarded us from the depths of the deckchair as we approached.
‘Lockwood and Company, here to meet Mr Saunders,’ Lockwood said. ‘Don’t get up.’
‘I won’t,’ the boy said. ‘Who are you? Sensitives, I suppose?’
George tapped the pommel of his rapier. ‘See these swords? We’re agents.’
The boy seemed doubtful. ‘Could’ve fooled me. Why ain’t you got uniforms, then?’
‘We don’t need them,’ Lockwood replied. ‘A rapier’s the true mark of an agent.’
‘Codswallop,’ the boy said. ‘Proper agents have fancy jackets, like that hoity-toity Fittes crowd. I reckon you’re another drippy bunch of Sensitives who’ll pass out cold at the first sign of a Lurker.’ He turned back to his paper and snapped it open. ‘Anyways, in you go.’
Lockwood blinked. George took a half-step forward. ‘Agents’ swords aren’t just good for ghosts,’ he said. ‘They can also be used for whipping cheeky night-watch kids. Want us to show you?’
‘Oh, how terrifying. See me tremble.’ The boy pushed his cap further over his eyes and made himself comfy in his chair. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Straight up the main avenue, make for the chapel in the centre of the site. You’ll find everyone camped there. Now move along, please. You’re standing in my light.’
For a moment it was touch and go whether another small ghost might soon be haunting the margins of the Harrow Road, but I resisted the temptation. Lockwood motioned us on. We passed through the gate and entered the burial grounds.
Instinctively, as soon as we were in, we stopped and used our hidden senses. The others looked, I listened. All was peaceful; there wasn’t any sudden upsurge in psychic pressure. I heard nothing except for blackbirds calling sweetly, a few crickets in the grass. Gravel paths, shining dimly in the half-light, radiated away between dark ranks of memorials and tombs. Trees overhung the walkways, casting them into deeper shadow. Overhead, the sky was a fathomless dark blue, punctured by the risen moon’s bright disc.
We took the main avenue between rows of spreading limes. Dim triangles of moonlight cut between the trees, frosting the black grass. Our boots crunched on gravel; the chains in our bags chinked faintly as we marched along.
‘Should be fairly straightforward,’ Lockwood said, breaking our silence. ‘We stand by while they dig down to the coffin. When that’s done, we open it up, seal Dr Bickerstaff’s bones with a bit of silver, and head on our way. Easy.’
I made a sceptical noise. ‘Coffin opening’s never that simple,’ I said. ‘Something always goes wrong.’
‘Oh, not always.’
‘Name a single one that went well.’
‘I agree with Lucy,’ George said. ‘You’re assuming Edmund Bickerstaff won’t cause trouble. I bet he does.’
‘You’re both such worriers,’ Lockwood exclaimed. ‘Look on the bright side. We know the exact position of the Source tonight, plus we don’t have Kipps to fret about, do we? I think it’s going to be an excellent evening. As for Bickerstaff, just because he had an unfortunate end doesn’t mean he’ll necessarily be an aggressive spirit now.’
‘Maybe . . .’ George muttered. ‘But if I was eaten by rats I know I’d be fairly upset.’
After five minutes’ walk we saw the heavy white roof of a building rise among the trees like a whale breaching a dark sea. This was the Anglican chapel in the centre of the cemetery. At the front, four great pillars supported a Grecian portico. A broad flight of steps led to its double doors. They were open; electric light shone warmly from within. Below, half lit by giant hydraulic floodlights, sat two prefabricated work cabins. There were mechanical excavators, small dump-trucks, skips of earth. Twists of lavender smoke rose from buckets of coal burning at the edges of the camp.
Evidently we had reached the operations centre for Sweet Dreams Excavations and Clearance. A number of figures stood at the top of the chapel stairs, silhouetted against the open doors. We heard raised voices; fear crackled like static in the air.
Lockwood, George and I dropped our bags on the ground beside one of the smoking buckets. We climbed the steps, hands resting on our sword hilts. The crowd’s noise quietened; people moved aside, silently regarding us as we drew near.
At the top of the steps the angular, trilbied figure of Mr Saunders broke free of the throng and bustled over to make us welcome. ‘Just in time!’ he cried. ‘There’s been a small incident and these fools are refusing to stay! I keep telling them we’ve top agents arriving – but no, they want paying off. You’re not getting a penny!’ he roared over his shoulder. ‘Risk’s what I employ you for!’
‘Not after what they’ve seen,’ a big man said. He was aggressively stubbled, with skeleton tattoos on his neck and arm, and a chunky iron necklace hung over his shirt. Several other burly workmen stood in the crowd, along with a few frightened night-watch kids, clutching their watch-sticks to them like comforters. I also noted a posse of teenage girls, whose shapelessly floaty dresses, black eyeliner, outsize bangles and lank armpit-length hair marked them out as Sensitives. Sensitives do psychic work, but refuse to ever actually fight ghosts for reasons of pacifist principle. They’re generally as drippy as a summer cold and as irritating as nettle rash. We don’t normally get on.